She dunked back in the tub, swishing her head this way and that under the water before coming back up for air.
Benedict cupped his hands and filled them with water. “You’ve still got some in the back,” he said, letting the water pour over her hair.
Sophie let him repeat that process a few times, then finally asked, “Aren’t you coming in?” It was dreadfully brazen of her, and she knew she must be blushing like a raspberry, but she simply had to know.
He shook his head. “I’d planned to, but this is too much fun.”
“Washing me?” she asked doubtfully.
One corner of his mouth quirked into the faintest of half smiles. “I’m rather looking forward to drying you off as well.” He reached down and picked up a large white towel. “Up you go.”
Sophie chewed on her lower lip in indecision. She had, of course, already been as close to him as two people could be, but she wasn’t so sophisticated that she could rise naked from the tub without a large degree of embarrassment.
Benedict smiled faintly as he stood and unfolded the towel. Holding it wide, he averted his gaze and said, “I’ll have you all wrapped up before I can see a thing.”
Sophie took a deep breath and stood, somehow feeling that that one action might mark the beginning of the rest of her life.
Benedict gently wrapped the towel around her, his hands bringing the corners to her face when he was done. He dabbed at her cheeks, where light droplets of water were still clinging to her skin, then leaned down and kissed her nose. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.
“I’m glad, too.”
He touched her chin. His eyes never left hers, and she almost felt as if he’d touched those as well. And then, with the softest, most tender caress imaginable, he kissed her. Sophie didn’t just feel loved; she felt revered.
“I should wait until Monday,” he said, “but I don’t want to.”
“I don’t want you to wait,” she whispered.
He kissed her again, this time with a bit more urgency. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. “Everything I ever dreamed of.”
His lips found her cheek, her chin, her neck, and every kiss, every nibble robbed her of balance and breath. She was sure her legs would give out, sure her strength would fail her under his tender onslaught, and just when she was convinced she’d crumple to the floor, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
“In my heart,” he vowed, settling her against the quilts and pillows, “you are my wife.”
Sophie’s breath caught.
“After our wedding it will be legal,” he said, stretching out alongside her, “blessed by God and country, but right now—” His voice grew hoarse as he propped himself up on one elbow so that he could gaze into her eyes. “Right now it is true.”
Sophie reached up and touched his face. “I love you,” she whispered. “I have always loved you. I think I loved you before I even knew you.”
He leaned down to kiss her anew, but she stopped him with a breathy, “No, wait.”
He paused, mere inches from her lips.
“At the masquerade,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky, “even before I saw you, I felt you. Anticipation. Magic. There was something in the air. And when I turned, and you were there, it was as if you’d been waiting for me, and I knew that you were the reason I’d stolen into the ball.”
Something wet hit her cheek. A single tear, fallen from his eye.
“You are the reason I exist,” she said softly, “the very reason I was born.”
He opened his mouth, and for a moment she was certain he would say something, but the only sound that emerged was a rough, halting noise, and she realized that he was overcome, that he could not speak.
She was undone.
Benedict kissed her again, trying to show in deeds what he could not say in words. He hadn’t thought he could love her any more than he did just five seconds earlier, but when she’d said . . . when she’d told him . . .
His heart had grown, and he’d thought it might burst.
He loved her. Suddenly the world was a very simple place. He loved her, and that was all that mattered.
His robe and her towel melted away, and when they were skin to skin he worshipped her with his hands and lips. He wanted her to realize the extent of his need for her, and he wanted her to know the same desire.
“Oh, Sophie,” he groaned, her name the only word he could manage to say. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”
She smiled up at him, and he was struck by the most remarkable desire to laugh. He was happy, he realized. So damned happy.
And it felt good.
He positioned himself over her, ready to enter her, ready to make her his. This was different from the last time, when they’d both been swept away by emotion. This time they had been deliberate. They had chosen more than passion; they had chosen each other.
“You’re mine,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he slid inside. “You’re mine.”
And much later, when they were exhausted and spent, lying in each other’s arms, he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “And I’m yours.”
Several hours later, Sophie yawned and blinked herself awake, wondering why she felt so lovely and warm, and—
“Benedict!” she gasped. “What time is it?”
He didn’t respond, so she clutched at his shoulder and shook hard. “Benedict! Benedict!”
He grunted as he rolled over. “I’m sleeping.”
“What time is it?”
He buried his face in the pillow. “Haven’t the foggiest.”
“I’m supposed to be at your mother’s by seven.”
“Eleven,” he mumbled.
“Seven!”
He opened one eye. It looked like it took a great deal of effort. “You knew you weren’t going to make it back by seven when you decided to take a bath.”
“I know, but I didn’t think I’d be much past nine.”
Benedict blinked a few times as he looked around the room. “I don’t think you’re going to make it—”
But she’d already caught sight of the mantel clock and was presently choking frantically.
“Are you all right?” he inquired.
“It’s three in the morning!”
He smiled. “You might as well spend the night, then.”
“Benedict!”
“You wouldn’t want to put out any of the servants, would you? They’re all quite asleep, I’m sure.”
“But I—”
“Have mercy, woman,” he finally declared. “I’m marrying you next week.”
That got her attention. “Next week?” she squeaked.
He tried to assume a serious mien. “It’s best to take care of these things quickly.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he echoed.
“Yes, why?”
“Er, ah, stemming gossip and all that.”
Her lips parted and her eyes grew round. “Do you think Lady Whistledown will write about me?”
“God, I hope not,” he muttered.
Her face fell.
“Well, I suppose she might. Why on earth would you want her to?”
“I’ve been reading her column for years. I always dreamed of seeing my name there.”
He shook his head. “You have very strange dreams.”
“Benedict!”
“Very well, yes, I imagine Lady Whistledown will report our marriage, if not before the ceremony, then certainly very quickly after the fact. She’s diabolical that way.”
“I wish I knew who she was.”
“You and half of London.”
“Me and all of London, I should think.” She sighed, then said, not very convincingly, “I really should go. Your mother is surely worried about me.”
He shrugged. “She knows where you are.”
“But she’ll think less of me.”
“I doubt it. She’ll give you a bit of latitude, I’m sure, considering we’re to be married in three days.”
“Three days?” she yelped. “I thought you said next week.”
“Three days is next week.”
Sophie frowned. “Oh. You’re right. Monday, then?”
He nodded, looking very satisfied.
“Imagine that,” she said. “I’ll be in Whistledown.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, eyeing her suspiciously. “Are you looking forward to marrying me,” he asked in an amused voice, “or is it merely the Whistledown mention that has you so excited?”
She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder.
“Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “you’ve already been in Whistledown.”
“I have? When?”
“After the masquerade. Lady Whistledown remarked that I’d been rather taken with a mystery woman in silver. Try as she might, she couldn’t deduce your identity.” He grinned. “It very well may be the only secret in London she hasn’t uncovered.”
Sophie’s face went instantly serious and she scooted a foot or so away from him on the bed. “Oh, Benedict. I have to . . . I want to . . . That is to say . . .” She stopped, looking away for a few seconds before turning back. “I’m sorry.”
He considered yanking her back into his arms, but she looked so damned earnest he had no choice but to take her seriously. “What for?”
“For not telling you who I was. It was wrong of me.” She bit her lip. “Well, not wrong precisely.”
He drew back slightly. “If it wasn’t wrong, then what was it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain exactly why I did what I did, but it just . . .” She chewed on her lips some more. He started to think that she might do herself permanent harm.